With their moisture, they calm.
The burning flames, the shining alarm,
With their cold they settle,
The heat wave, raging with mettle.
Drops of rain, drops of sea,
Drops of gaze, drops of spree,
Each has its own story, a tale, a rhyme,
Each flows with the wind, lands at its own time.
The water leaves a trail,
A wet path, with blooming frail.
The drops leave a mark,
An unheard call of pain, in light and dark.
Drops of thirst, drops of our sorrow,
Drops of remorse, drops that we borrow,
They have their chime, their reason, their rhyme,
They have their weight, falling on their dime.
Flowing, streaming, settling, crossing on land,
All drops smother the lakes of fire in sand,
The ones that catch the dust, the light and the lust,
Are the drops that miss the smoke, grow in the rust.